Nancy Dampier sat up in bed.
Long rays of bright sunlight filtering in between deep blue curtains showed
her a large, lofty room, with panelled walls, and furniture covered with
blue damask silk.
It was more like an elegant boudoir in an old English country house than a
bedroom, and for a moment she wondered, bewildered, where she could be.
Then suddenly she remembered--remembered everything; and her heart filled,
brimmed over, with seething pain and a sharp, overwhelming sensation
of fear.
Jack had gone: disappeared: vanished as if the earth had swallowed him up!
And she, Nancy, was alone in a foreign city where she did not know a single
soul, with the paramount exception of the American strangers who had come
to her help in so kindly and so generous a fashion.
She pushed her soft hair back from her forehead, and tried to recall, step
by step, all that had happened yesterday.
Two facts started out clearly--her almost painful gratitude to the Burtons
and her shrinking terror of the Poulains, or rather of Madame Poulain, the
woman who had looked fixedly into her face and lied.
As to what had happened to Dampier, Nancy's imagination began to whisper
things of unutterable dread. If her Jack had been possessed of a large sum
of money she would have suspected the hotel people of having
murdered him....
But no, she and Jack had come to the end of the ample provision of gold and
bank-notes with which they had started for Italy. As is the way with most
prosperous newly-married folk, they had spent a good deal more on their
short honeymoon than they had reckoned to do. He had said so the day before
yesterday, in the train, when within an hour of Paris. Indeed he had added
that one of the first things they must do the next day must be to call at
the English bank where he kept an account.
She now told herself that she had to face the possibility, nay the
probability, that her husband had met with some serious accident on his way
to the Impasse des Nonnes. Nancy knew that this had been Gerald Burton's
theory, and of her three new kind friends it was Gerald Burton who
impressed her with the greatest trust and confidence. He, unlike his
father, had at once implicitly believed her version of what had taken place
when she and Jack arrived at the Hôtel Saint Ange.
The bedroom door opened, cautiously, quietly, and Daisy Burton came in
carrying a tray in her pretty graceful hands.
Poor Nancy! She felt confused, grateful, and a little awkward. She had not
realised that her nervous dread of Madame Poulain would mean that this kind
girl must wait on her.
"I came in before, but you were sound asleep. Still, I thought I must wake
you now, for father wants to know if you would mind him going to our
Embassy about your husband? It's really my brother's idea. As you know,
Gerald thinks it almost certain that Mr. Dampier met with some kind of
accident yesterday morning, and he isn't a bit satisfied with the way the
local Commissaire de Police answered his enquiries. Gerald thinks the only
way to get attended to in Paris is to make people feel that you are
important, and that they will get into trouble if they don't attend to you
promptly!"
Even as she was speaking Daisy Burton smiled rather nervously, for both she
and Gerald had just gone through a very disagreeable half-hour with their
generally docile and obedient father.
The Senator did not wish to go to the American Embassy--at any rate not
yet--about this strange business. He had pleaded with both his young people
to wait, at any rate, till the afternoon: at any moment, so he pointed out,
they might have news of the missing man: but Gerald was inexorable.
"No, father, that's no use; if we do nothing we shan't get proper attention
from the police officials till to-morrow. If you will only go and see Mr.
Curtis about this business I promise to take all other trouble off
your hands."
And then the Senator had actually groaned--as if he minded trouble!
"Mr. Curtis will do for you what he certainly wouldn't do for me, father.
Daisy can go with you to the Embassy: I'll stay and look after Mrs.
Dampier: she mustn't be left alone, exposed to the Poulains' insolence."
And so the matter had been settled. But Senator Burton had made one
stipulation:--
"I won't go to the Embassy," he said firmly, "without hearing from Mrs.
Dampier's own lips that such is her wish. And, Daisy? Gerald? Hearken to
me--neither of you is to say anything to influence her in the matter, one
way or the other."
And so it was with a certain relief that Daisy Burton now heard her new
friend say eagerly:
"Why of course! I shall only be too grateful if your father will do
anything he thinks may help me to find Jack. Oh, you don't know how
bewildered and how frightened I feel!"
And the other answered soothingly, "Yes, indeed I do know how you must
feel. But I expect it will be all right soon. After all, Gerald
said--"--she hesitated a moment, and then went on more firmly--"Gerald said
that probably Mr. Dampier met with quite a slight accident, and that might
be the reason why the tiresome Commissaire de Police knew nothing
about it."
"But if it was a slight accident," Nancy objected quickly, "Jack would have
let me know at once! You don't know my husband: he would move heaven and
earth to save me a minute's anxiety or trouble."
"I am sure of that. But Gerald says that if Mr. Dampier did try and arrange
for you to be sent a message at once, the message miscarried--"
It was an hour later. The Senator had listened in silence while his young
English guest had expressed in faltering, but seemingly very sincere,
tones, her gratitude for his projected visit to the American Embassy. Nay,
she had done more. Very earnestly Mrs. Dampier had begged Senator Burton
and his daughter not to give themselves more trouble over her affairs than
was absolutely necessary.
And her youth, her beauty, her expression of pitiful distress had touched
the Senator, though it had not shaken his belief in the Poulains' story. He
did however assure her, very kindly and courteously, that he grudged no
time spent in her service.
And then, while Gerald Burton accompanied his father and his sister
downstairs, Nancy Dampier was left alone for a few minutes with her own
troubled and bewildered thoughts.
She walked restlessly over to one of the high windows of the sitting-room,
and looked down into the shady garden below. Then her eyes wandered over
the picturesque grey and red roofs of the old Paris Jack Dampier loved
so well.
Somehow the cheerful, bright beauty of this June morning disturbed and even
angered poor Nancy. She remembered with distaste, even with painful wonder,
the sensations of pleasure, of amusement, of admiration with which she had
first come through into this formal, harmoniously furnished salon, which
was so unlike any hotel sitting-room she had ever seen before.
But that had been yesterday morning--infinitely long ago.
Now, each of the First Empire pieces of furniture seemed burnt into her
brain: and the human faces of the dull gold sphinxes which jutted from each
of the corners of the long, low settee seemed to grin at her maliciously.
She felt unutterably forlorn and wretched. If only she could do something!
She told herself, with a sensation of recoil and revolt, that she could
never face another day of suspense and waiting spent as had been the whole
of yesterday afternoon and evening.
Going up to the brass-rimmed round table, she took up a book which was
lying there. It was a guide to Paris, arranged on the alphabetical
principle. Idly she began turning over the leaves, and then suddenly Nancy
Dampier's cheeks, which had become so pale as to arouse Senator Burton's
commiseration, became deeply flushed. She turned over the leaves of the
guide-book with feverish haste, anxious to find what it was that she now
sought there before the return of Gerald Burton.
At last she came to the page marked M.
Yes, there was what she at once longed and dreaded to find! And she had
just read the last line of the paragraph when Gerald Burton came back
into the room.
Looking at him fixedly, she said quietly and in what he felt to be an
unnaturally still voice, "Mr. Burton? There is a place in Paris called the
Morgue. Do you not think that I ought to go there, to-day? It says in this
guide-book that people who are killed in the streets of Paris are taken
straight to the Morgue."
The young American nodded gravely. The Commissary of Police had mentioned
the Morgue, had in fact suggested that those who were seeking John Dampier
would do well to go there within a day or two.
Nancy went on:--"Could I go this morning? I would far rather go by myself,
I mean without saying anything about it to either your father or to
your sister."
He answered quickly, but so gently, so kindly, that the tears sprang to her
eyes, "Yes, I quite understand that. But of course you must allow me to go
with you."
And she answered, again in that quiet, unnaturally still voice, "Thank you.
I shall be grateful if you will." Then after a moment, "Couldn't we start
soon--I mean now?"
"Why yes, certainly--if you wish it."
Without saying anything further, she went to put on her hat.
Gerald Burton's notions as to the Morgue were in a sense at once confused
and clear. He had known of the place ever since he could read. He was aware
that it was a building where all those who die a violent death are at once
taken: he imagined it further to be a place where morbid curiosity drew
daily many tourists. In fact in an old guide-book of which his father was
fond he remembered that there ran a sentence:--
The Morgue is certainly one of the most curious and extraordinary
sights of Paris, but only those who are in the enjoyment of good nerves
are advised to visit it.
As he waited for Mrs. Dampier the young man's face became very, very grave.
Till now he had not envisaged the possibility that John Dampier, this
unknown man across the current of whose life he, Gerald Burton, had been
thrust in so strange and untoward a manner, might be dead.
Sudden death--that dread possibility which is never far from any one of
us--never haunts the mind of normal youth.
But now there came to Gerald Burton a sudden overwhelming understanding of
the transience not only of human life, but what means so much more to most
sentient human beings, the transience of such measure of happiness as we
poor mortals are allowed to enjoy.
His imagination conjured up Nancy Dampier as he had first seen her standing
in Virginie Poulain's little room. She had been a vision of lovely
girlhood, and yes, far more than that--though he had not known it then--of
radiant content.
And now?
His unspoken question was answered by Mrs. Dampier's return into the room.
He looked at her searchingly. Yes, she was lovely--her beauty rather
heightened than diminished, as is so often the case with a very young
woman, by the ordeal she was going through, but all the glow and radiance
were gone from her face.
"I ought to have told you before," he said impulsively, "that--that among
the men who were taken to the Morgue yesterday morning there was no one who
in the least answered to the description you have given me of Mr.
Dampier--so much the Commissary of Police was able to inform me most
positively."
And Nancy drew a long convulsive breath of relief.
They went down to the courtyard, and across to the porte cochère. While
they did so Gerald Burton was unpleasantly conscious that they were being
watched; watched from behind the door which led into the garden, for there
stood Jules, a broom as almost always in his hand: watched from the kitchen
window, where Madame Poulain stood with arms akimbo: watched from behind
the glass pane of the little office which was only occupied when Monsieur
Poulain was engaged in the pleasant task of making out his profitable
weekly bills.
But not one of the three watchers came forward and offered to do them even
the usual, trifling service of hailing a cab.
The two passed out into the narrow street and walked till they came to the
square where stood, at this still early hour of the morning, long rows of
open carriages.
"I think we'd better drive?" said Gerald Burton questioningly.
And his companion answered quickly, "Oh yes! I should like to get there as
quickly as possible." And then her pale face flushed a little. "Mr. Burton,
will you kindly pay for me?"
She put her purse, an absurd, delicately tinted little beaded purse which
had been one of her wedding presents, into his hand.
Gerald took it without demur. Had he been escorting an American girl, he
would have insisted on being paymaster, but some sure instinct had already
taught him how to treat Nancy Dampier--he realised she preferred not adding
a material to the many immaterial obligations she now owed the
Burton family.
A quarter of an hour's quick driving brought them within sight of the low,
menacing-looking building which is so curiously, in a sense so beautifully,
situated on the left bank of the Seine, to the right of Notre Dame.
"Mrs. Dampier? I beg you not to get out of the carriage till I come and
fetch you," said Gerald earnestly, "there is no necessity for you to come
into the Morgue unless--" he hesitated.
"I know what you mean," she said quietly. "Unless you see someone there who
might be Jack. Yes, Mr. Burton, I'll stay quietly in the carriage till you
come and fetch me. It's very good of you to have thought of it."
But when they drew up before the great closed door two or three of the
incorrigible beggars who spend their days in the neighbourhood of the
greater Paris churches, came eagerly forward.
Here were a fine couple, a good-looking Englishman and his bride. True,
they were about to be cheated out of their bit of fun, but they might be
good for a small dole--so thought the shrewder of those idlers who seemed,
as the carriage drew up, to spring out of the ground.
One of them strolled up to Gerald. "M'sieur cannot go into the Morgue
unless he has a permit," he said with a whine.
Gerald shook the man off, and rang at the closed door. It seemed a long
time before it was opened by a man dressed like a Paris workman, that is in
a bright blue blouse and long baggy white trousers.
"I want to view any bodies which were brought in yesterday. I fear I am a
little early?"
He slipped a five franc piece into the man's hand. But the silver key which
unlocks so many closed doors in Paris only bought this time a civil answer.
"Impossible, monsieur! I should lose my place. I could not do it for a
thousand francs." And then in answer to the American's few words of
surprise and discomfiture,--"Yes, it's quite true that we were open to the
public till three years ago. But it's easier to get into the Elysée than it
is to get into the Morgue, nowadays." He waited a moment, then he murmured
under his breath, "Of course if monsieur cares to say that he is looking
for someone who has disappeared, and if he will provide a description, the
more commonplace the better, then--well, monsieur may be able to obtain a
permit! At any rate monsieur has only to go along to the office where
permits are issued to find that what I say is true. If only monsieur will
bring me a permit I will gladly show monsieur everything there is to be
seen." The man became enthusiastic. "Not only are there the bodies to see!
We also possess relics of many great criminals; and as for our
refrigerating machines--ah, monsieur, they are really in their way wonders!
Well worth, as I have sometimes heard people say, coming all the way to
Paris to see!"
Sick at heart Gerald Burton turned away--not, however, before he had
explained gravely that his wish in coming to the Morgue was not to gratify
idle curiosity, but to seek a friend whose disappearance since the morning
before was causing acute anxiety.
The man looked at him doubtfully--somehow this young gentleman did not look
as people generally look who come to the Morgue on serious business. The
janitor was only too familiar with the signs--the air of excitement, of
dejection, of suspense, the reddened eyelids.... But, "In that case I am
sure to see monsieur again within a few minutes," he said politely.
Nancy had stepped down from the carriage. "Well?" she said anxiously.
"Well, won't he let you in?"
"We shall have to get an order. The office is only just over there,
opposite Notre Dame. Shall we dismiss the cab?"
"Yes," she said. "I would far rather walk across." Still followed by a
troop of ragged idlers, they hastened across the great space in front of
Notre Dame and so to the office of the Morgue.
At first the tired official whose not always easy duty it is to
discriminate between the morbid sightseer and the anxious relative or
friend, did not believe the American's story. He, too, evidently thought
that Gerald and the latter's charming, daintily dressed companion were
simply desirous of seeing every sight, however horrible, that Paris has to
offer. But when he heard the name "Dampier," his manner suddenly changed.
There came over his face a sincere look of pity and concern.
"You made enquiries concerning this gentleman yesterday?" he observed, and
Gerald Burton, rather surprised, though after all he need not have been,
assented. Then the Commissary of Police had been to some trouble for him
after all? He, Gerald, had done the man an injustice.
"We have had five bodies already brought in this morning," said the clerk
thoughtfully. "But I'm sure that none of them answers to the description we
have had of madame's husband. Let me see--Monsieur Dampier is aged
thirty-four--he is tall, dressed in a grey suit, or possibly a brown suit
of clothes, with a shock of fair hair?"
And again Gerald Burton was surprised how well the man remembered.
The other went into another room and came back with a number of grey cards
in his hand. He began to mumble over the descriptions, and suddenly Gerald
stopped him.
"That might be the person we are looking for!" he exclaimed. "I mean the
description you've just read out--that of the Englishman?"
"Oh no, monsieur! I assure you that the body here described is that of a
quite young man." And as the American looked at him doubtfully, he added,
"But still, if you wish to make absolutely sure I will make out a permit;
and madame can stay here while you go across to the Morgue." Again he
looked pityingly at Mrs. Dampier.
Nancy shook her head. "Tell him I mean to go too," she said quietly.
The man looked at her with an odd expression. "I should not myself care to
take my wife or my sister to the Morgue, monsieur. Believe me her husband
is not there. Do try and dissuade the poor lady." As he spoke he averted
his eyes from Nancy's flushed face.
Gerald Burton hesitated: it was really kind of this good fellow to feel so
much for a stranger's distress.
"Won't you stay here and let me go alone to that place? I think you can
trust me. You see there is only one body there which in any way answers to
the description."
"Yes, I quite understand that, but I'd rather go too." Her lips quivered.
"You see you've never seen Jack, Mr. Burton."
"I'm afraid this lady is quite determined to go too," said the young
American in a low voice; and without making any further objection, the
Frenchman filled in a form and silently handed it to Gerald Burton.
And then something happened which was perhaps more untoward and strange
than Gerald realised.
He and Mrs. Dampier were already well started across the great sunny space
in front of Notre Dame, when suddenly he felt himself tapped on the
shoulder by the man from whom they had just parted.
"Monsieur, monsieur!" said the French official breathlessly, "I forgot a
most important point. Visitors to the Morgue are not allowed to see all the
bodies exposed in our mortuary. When the place was closed to the public we
went from one extreme to the other. The man whose description you think
approximates to that of the gentleman you are looking for is Number 4. Tell
the guardian to show you Number 4."
Then he turned on his heel, without awaiting the other's thanks; and as he
walked away, the Frenchman said aloud, not once but many times, "Pauvre
petite dame!" And then again and again, "Paume petite dame!"
But his conscience was clear. He had done his very best to prevent that
obstinate young American subjecting the "poor little lady" to the horrible
ordeal she was about to go through. Once more he spoke aloud--"They have no
imagination--none at all--these Yankees!" he muttered, shrugging his
shoulders.